


Because headstones are not big enough.

by towards



Category: South Park
Genre: Drug Abuse, M/M, South Park is Weird, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towards/pseuds/towards
Summary: In the fourth grade, he had been swept up into Kyle, Cartman and Stan’s group of friends. The second replacement, after Butters, to fill the void of a dead boy who was so much bigger than them all. Shoehorned in where he didn’t fit, learning all too quickly why everyone was captivated with them from afar but reluctant to join in on an adventure more than once. They were a nightmare. They were chaos incarnate, impossible to keep up with, impossible to say no to -- they had been his best friends, and his worst nightmares.He’d been there because Kenny McCormick had died.But he’d learned not to say that.Because Kenny McCormick wasn’t dead.





	1. we're going to need a club name.

In the fourth grade, he had been swept up into Kyle, Cartman and Stan’s group of friends. The second replacement, after Butters, to fill the void of a dead boy who was so much bigger than them all. Shoehorned in where he didn’t fit, learning all too quickly why everyone was captivated with them from afar but reluctant to join in on an adventure more than once. They were a nightmare. They were chaos incarnate, impossible to keep up with, impossible to say no to -- they had been his best friends, and his worst nightmares.

He’d been there because Kenny McCormick had died.

But he’d learned not to say that.

Because Kenny McCormick wasn’t dead. 

He swore up and down that was the reason. He remembered late nights reading up on muscular dystrophy and not sleeping for months after, wondering if every faint tremor would lead to a slow decline in a cold hospital bed. He remembered making cards and, after an exceptionally poor night of sleep, folding two hundred and seventy seven cranes out of paper napkins. He remembered visiting him – they’d never been close, but he had, and the first stupid thing he’d managed to say was he was sorry he couldn’t make a thousand and even sorrier that Kenny was sick.

Butters had filled the slot. Then him. It had been hell. He’d felt like he was dying, not invincible, he’d done heinous things. Clyde had found him in the bathroom between periods the day after breakdown, hyperventilating about pressure and danger and fear – and swept him up in a hug and told him not to go back to them.

He never strayed again.

And then nobody remembered that. They'd forgotten. Universe glitched, it all reset. None of it ever happened. He mentioned it to Craig once, sprawled out on the front of his car – remember that campaign to free Hat? I don’t think I’ll ever get over my part in that. What he did to those babies, just… awful – and Craig had fixed him with a curious look.

“Honey, that was Kenny. We were building that fort in Token’s basement… Remember?”

He didn’t. 

He remembered blinking and Kenny had been back. Remembered staring at his bedroom window with wide-eyes and wondering if something would come through, if someone was going to get him. Remembered the terror of not knowing whether or not it was safe to open the door or talk to strangers, or if he could trust his own parents. Remembered the guilt of a child murderer roaming free, and – and if that wasn’t real, then what was?

His attempts at bringing it up were met with blank stares or a not-so-subtle dig at his sanity, or gentle voices trying to guide him to their answers for what happened what day, where, and when. Tweek got used to this happening, chalked it up to everything else that happens around him that isn’t real. Underpants gnomes, zombies, and hell invading Earth. He’s crazy and he knows it, so he keeps his mouth shut because the last thing he needs or wants is another trip to Hell's Pass and another round of heavy medications that help with the anxiety but nothing else. His head is just a mess, he's accepted it, just as he's accepted he's only making worse by all the chemicals pounding through his veins and quickening his pulse. He self medicates from pharmacists on street corners and learns to speak of events only when others bring them up.

It's how he gets by. This is not where he saw himself at twenty-four, but it's where he is and he's long since stopped spinning his wheels trying to get out. It only dug him in deeper.

He must have fallen asleep. It’s his third 24 hour shift in a row at the shop and he’s started micronapping to deal, micronaps are all he can manage these days. REM sleep is a place of nightmares and monsters that even the waking world can't match. The bell jingles and he jerks awake with a startled sound and immediately grabs for his trusty boom, only to stop at the sight of the familiar cowl. He rakes his hands through his hair and rubs at his nose to clear off any lingering remnants of powder.

( That shit is gonna kill you one day, dude, if your parents don’t first. Token’s voice echoing in his ear, he should apologize to them all. He and Craig would apologize and fix things, later, he was sure. Just not now, not about this. He couldn’t deal right now. )

“Nnn… The the usual, Mysterion?” He stretches out slowly, popping his joints and scuffing a hand through his hair.

This too probably isn’t real. Nobody seems to remember Mysterion either. Not in any real detail. He’d lost count of how many times he’d walked home past a mutilated body cloaked in purple, only for it to be gone the next time he passed by. Not a word. No mention. Gone. Forgotten unless he walked by that corner again and felt that familiar pressing tingle that he’d forgotten something.

( like dreams, he doesn’t like to dream because when he does everything crashes into him like an unstoppable wave. )

His own pupils are dialated to pinpricks, dots of black swimming in hazy bloodshot blue, the bags so dark they look like bruises. He reaches under the desk to crank the radio, switching from the sedative mix he’d been using to something with more thump and bass to keep him awake.

“I think I’ve got, ngh, some new specialty beans in the back…” 

( something warns him against the back room – the attempted robbery was thwarted last night, he could barely remember it, only it made him not want to sleep and his stomach did agonizing somersaults when he thought of it, but something about the darkness is foreboding and dangerous. ) 

"Whatever's fine, T," Mysterion says, hopping up on a bar stool. He drums his hands against the countertop in a familiar beat that the barista can't place. He catches the look Kenny gives him, that appraising look all his friends throw his way (how much longer are you gonna go on like this, man) but doesn't give it a thought. He just turns to the expresso machine and gets started on a hot cup.

“Nngh,” is the response at first, Tweek glaces over his shoulder to look at the shelves of coffee. “I guess, oh jesus, hold on, let me see…”

Something clean. That was important. Tweek rubs his eyes with a grunt and a sharp exhale, forcing himself to wake up. Far be it from him to drug the only thing standing between this town and total destruction. He turns and rummages through the selection behind the counter. ruffling his hands through his hair and snapping his fingers a few times as they drop.

Dimly, he realizes that he never restocked the shelves. They’re down on everything and outright out of some of the beans. Tweek is religious about ensuring nothing runs down, rush hour hits hard and he’s always afraid to leave the front unattended when other people are around. 

“Nngh, shit, sorry, I’ll – be right back.”

The back room is dark, flipping the light switch does nothing. The lightbulb is broken. Everything is scattered around, bags split open and spilling out - he’d almost forgotten, the robbery, but this was worse than that. Tweek rubs a hand down his face and feels his throat constrict, dreading walking inside.

“We got robbed last night,” he says like Mysterion wasn’t there, because he really couldn’t be sure he had been. “I-it was a really bad one, I– I didn’t clean up yet, so, just… sorry, this is going to take a minute. Shit, I knew I forgot something. God damn it.”

He reaches into his pocket and produces his phone, flipping the flashlight on and stepping inside. 

( don’t )

He remembered that they had a gun - that he knows for sure. They were associates of his parents and he had been here alone, awake, and unprepared for people bigger and stronger than him to hold him at gunpoint and throw him into the back room. Demanding payment he didn’t have and product he couldn’t produce. He remembers panicking, trying to tell them that he couldn’t do anything and he didn’t have any money, they didn’t even really pay him a living wage. Trying to get his phone and call the police, or his parents, or anyone and having it kicked out his hand.

From there things are fuzzier.

A purple cloak. Cursing. Shots fired. The cops had shown up and escorted the men off, the floor had been marked with a white outline for the body – there was no body – but no investigation had followed. No one had followed up. He’d even called the precinct to ask them when they were coming and he’d been told that the investigation was finished and he’d be contacted when the men were to be tried.

Like there wasn’t a dead body there.

Like it hadn’t happened.

Yet as he steps inside, turning towards the one standing shelf, he sees the proof that it had. There is a body decomposing in the back room, there are rats crawling across it. Tweek whips around and slams against the shelf, his hands rising slowly to tangle in his hair. He’d seen this before – he he’d seen it but it wasn’t real. Mysterion was standing outside. If Mysterion was real. If anything was real.

“Holy shit,” a deep breath, it doesn’t stop the panic. The hands in his hair tug. “HOLY SHIT!! JESUS CHRIST!”

“NnnNNNNNNAHHH!”

At once Mysterion is there. Through the door and ready to deliver whatever justice needs to be dealt, shouting a question that Tweek only hears as rushing water. His eyes are fixed on the body.

This should be old hat.

This isn't the first time he's seen the body.

But it's the first time he's seen it in such a state.

“Jesus Christ, man!"

Hands find his shoulders. The cowl is pulled off, Kenny McCormick is staring back at him. Kenny's face is serious and somber, no humor, he's losing it and there's no coming back. Imagining rotting bodies wasn't terribly new but to this degree was, this smell is overwhelming and he feels the world tilt sharply. 

"Easy, Tweek. Breath in."

He does. A mistake. It tastes like death.

Kenny is alrady gently but firmly shoving him out the door and into the front. The door slams behind them, but Kenny doesn't let go. His hands are solid. This is real. This is actually fucking real, and he feels like he’s about to faint or vomit or both. His hands come up to cover his mouth and brace himself against the wall, covered in the case of either outcome.

"Seriously, T. I can't have you passing out in me. Breathe."

Think calm, Tweek. Calm. He takes in a deep breath, giving a tight nod at his friend's reassurance. He’s real. This is real. Relax. Relax. Some of the tension manages to ebb from his body, and by the time Kenny lets go, he’s no longer hyperventilating.

Tweek’s hands find his hair again, too many terrible things running through his mind to process all at once.

“Holy shit. Holy shit. We’re going to get shut down. This is ten million health code violations and on top of being a fucking crime scene. We – we we, we gotta get, nngh, we gotta get some hydrochloric acid. And rat traps. Oh Jesus, oh Christ, we’re going to need a bathtub – no, no that melts through ceramic. We need plastic. Tupperware. Christ, do I even have a big enough tupperware container?”

He’s talking through his teeth. Every word coming out strained and struggling for calm against a much bigger meltdown. Midway through the rant, though, he catches the look on Kenny's face. Caught somewhere between humor and disgust, amusement and horror.

"What?"

"Is that really what you're worried about?" He asks, the hint of a laugh on his lips. "And since when do you know how to dispose of a body?"

"Breaking Bad," Tweek answers automatically, tugging at his shirt collar now. "I fact checked. You never know. And, nngh, of course that's what I'm worried about! Jesus fuck, man, we're barely open as it is!"

"Nobody will notice."

"I noticed! Other people are going to notice! How do people not notice a rotting corpse!? Jesus, how did no one pick up on the smell? Fuck, holy shit, holy fucking shit we're going to lose the shop and I'm going to have to go live on the streets doing handjobs for crack--!"

"That's only if you're addicted to smack, man," Kenny drawls, giving him one last once over before he heads over to the door and flicks the lock. Flipping the sign around despite the sound of protest Tweek makes.

"How would you know?! You weren't even there, you were --!" 

"I was what."

The easy smile on Kenny's face is back, but it's different. There's something in his gaze, something expectant. Something almost hopeful -- something Tweek suddenly felt certain he'd never seen before. 

Sure, they were friends. The same way everyone in this tiny town could be called a friend -- they'd gone to school together, they'd occasionally hung out in the presence of other people, and Kenny frequented his place of work. They talked, but it was never anything deep. They weren't those kinds of friends. Their friendship wasn't like -- him and Craig, or Token, or Jimmy or Clyde. It wasn't even as cemented as his friendship with Stan Marsh, Kyle Brovlowski, and Eric Cartman. They were friends by default.

And now this friend by default was looking at him as if he held the city to the city, while his corpse rotted less than ten feet behind them.

Tweek grabs at his hair.

"No, no, T, c'mon. Finish what you were going to say." Kenny steps forward again, gently taking hold of his wrists and prizing them from his hair. There's nearly a foot difference in their height. Tweek's growth spurt had hit early, topping him out at a neat five foot fucking three. Kenny took longer, grew like a tree, fit the hero persona he'd established. "I'm not going to judge."

"You'll think I'm insane," is the weak protest that tumbles out, as if any of this can be counted as sane.

"I'm wearing my underwear on the outside, I'm not in any position to judge anyone's sanity right now."

To his own surprise, Tweek laughs. Kenny grins. The expectation is thick between them. He's not sure if he should say it, he's said it so many times, been met with so many looks -- but there's a body in the back room, and either he's finally lost it or they both know it's there.

"You died. You lit a fart on fire and you burned to death. We had to attend grief counselling and language re-education. We went to war with Canada."

There's no discernable reaction. Tweek feels panic well in his gut.

"Tell me exactly what's going on right now," he says finally, something iron in his voice. The hope is crystallizing, cementing into something new. There's an expectant edge to it. He's on the cusp of something he's wanted, and Tweek for the life of him can't put it down. "Tweek, tell me exactly what's going on in that back room."

"Is this a trap?"

"No, dude, just tell me. I need to hear you say it."

Tweek's eyes dart to the door. Then back to Kenny's face. Underneath that easy smile there's something desperate. Something he can't ignore. 

"Your body is back there. You were shot in the head last night when you, nnngh, were defending me, and now your corpse is being eaten by rats and the rats are going to get into our walls and the store is going to get shut down for hiding a murder and also being infested with corpse eating rats," the words tumble out in a rush. Something like relief replacing them inside of him, relief to finally let them out and exist in the world and not just within the confines of his mind.

"Holy fuck." Kenny steps back. A laugh on his lips. "Holy fuck, man."

"Sorry, I -- dude I just see shit, don't even, I get it's weird don't worry about it, I won't -- I mean, nobody believes me anyway."

Kenny laughs at that. Harder this time. Tweek doesn't get the joke. The other blonde's chuckle of disbelief turns to a giggle and the giggle morphs into a full blown, full body shaking laugh. The hero doubles over, catching the countertop for support. It's not funny, but somehow Tweek can't find the words to say. He just watches, arms folding over his chest, scratching at the crooks of his arm.

Finally, composure is gained. Kenny pushes himself up and sticks out a hand. His grin is something else now, something -- more genuine. 

"Welcome to the club," he says. He can't stop giggling. His face is flushed and giddy, like a kid on Christmas being presented with his hearts desire.

"I don't like clubs," Tweek answers, looking down at his hand and back up. "Too much pressure."

"S'fine. Only members are you and me. It's an exclusive club. Criteria for entry is having a pair of working eyeballs and a brain, and in this town, that's hard to come by."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, T," Kenny leans in close. "You're not crazy. Well, not entirely. You're probably kind of crazy -- but all this? This is really happening. There's a body in the back room. I lit a fart on fire and died in the fourth grade."

Kenny wiggles his fingers.

"And muscular dystrophy," Tweek finds himself saying again. The floor drops out from under them, up is down and left is right, and the world makes no fucking sense because if it's exactly as he sees it then he doesn't know what to do. "You had muscular dystrophy. You --"

"Died. And you replaced me. Yeah man. You're not crazy. That's how it happened. Everyone else is crazy."

His hand comes up. Grips Kenny's tightly, not a shake but a desperate need for affirmation. He doesn't know what else to do - Kenny McCormick is real and solid. Warm. Not dead.

"We're gonna need a club name."


	2. if you wanna be blunt.

They don't decide on a club name. Kenny declares that will be the next meeting, because of course there will be a next meeting. Kenny cleans up the mess in the back room as best he can and leaves the body where it is, reassuring him that it's well on its way to being gone.

And Craig had want him to go to rehab. 

It's a thought that presses into his mind as he looks at the catastrophe that was his back room. Craig had insisted that there was something wrong, he was broken, Craig had wanted it all to go away without even trying to understand. Kenny McCormick is rotting in the backroom while here, in front of him, he wolfs down day old muffins like he hasn't eaten in weeks. Kenny doesn't bat an eye as he drops clumsily into the seat across from him, cigarette between two shaking fingers while one hand worries its way through the thick tangles and snarls of his fried hair. Tweek takes a drag and offers it wordlessly, Kenny takes it and together they mull over the revelations of the night.

“So do your dudes know you’re, y’know," Kenny speaks finally, trading the cigarette for another muffin.

“Crazy?” Tweek takes a long drag, letting it filter out his nose like a dragon.

“Well, if you wanna be blunt.”

“Y-Yeah man, they know. They’ve been my best friends since elementary school. I don’t think I’ve ever been, ngh, subtle about it.”

Best friends that aren't on speaking terms, but best friends none the less. The kind of friends he used to stay up all night with, the kind of friends who used to hang outside his window and encourage him to sneak out and join them on their own personal brand of misadventures - underage drinking and poorly thought out fake IDs. He toys with his lower lip, teeth catching raw skin as he considers their faces. Their reactions. The last time they spoke.

He should apologize.

He really, really owes them an 'I'm sorry' coupled with a few dozen 'please forgive mes'. They'll forgive him, they always do - but if he's being honest, he's a little sick of apologizing for things far beyond his control. He cushions his chin on his hand and shuts his eyes.

“I remember you used to cry every time one of us hit zero hitpoints in Cartman’s games."

“I figured sooner or later it’d stick. You got shot in the head. I – man, I thought I just couldn’t tell fantasy from reality anymore because nobody else seemed to give a shit!"

Kenny chuckles. The sound is easy, but he catches the bitter undertone as he shakes his head. He gets it. He understands without words, the frustration of knowing and having nobody believe. The desperate need for reassurance that you're not going insane, that the world is insane, and not having anyone see it. Eventually the sound dies down, he sounds older when he talks. Tired, almost. "You seriously knew all the way back then?"

“I've known for as long as I can remember," he answers. His thumbnail finds a knick in his forearm, he scratches it. “Kindergarten, man. You blew yourself up on like the second day. I kept trying to tell people, y’know? But it was always the wrong time. Or you were back, and it was all, stop being morbid, Tweek. Nobody ever believed me – u-until that summer you were gone, and then they did. And then suddenly you were back again, and nobody remembered I was their friend. They thought you were there the whole time.”

“Yeah.”

He should stop there. But the words keep coming, out in a rush that he finds no purchase in stopping. “And I couldn’t even convince my friends I wasn’t there with them no matter what I did. I went back a-and watched the footage from interviews, w-with the Free Hat thing? I was it was, ngh, me. But they saw you and I was like – okay, t-that’s it man, nobody else can know. You’re going to get locked up permanently if you say anything… So I stopped.”

Kenny nods. He understands. Not the fake kind that Craig used to offer, tinged with worry and fear that he had finally gone too far. Not the nervous bob that Clyde used to give, his eyes darting to Token - looking for reassurance that Tweek was really okay. Or Jimmy's nervous chuckle, coupled with a joke meant to lighten the air but only undercut how crazy he all sounded. And not Token’s slow dip, the go-to when he didn’t agree but was afraid to disagree in fear Tweek would recoil further into his vices. 

He was doing that a lot lately.

“No, I get it man. They were telling me all about this like I was there… I’d never been gone so long before, universe didn’t know how to deal. It just kind of snapped everything back the best way it knew how. I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah. Not a lot of concrete answers to be found.”

That's not comforting. Kenny doesn't expect it to be. Tweek doesn't need it to be. Answers, he supposes, are next -- whatever that means can wait. Just knowing that there is a question is already too much, a relief and a curse. He can feel his mind start to rev, going through years upon years of untold adventures and wondering how much of it was real. How much of it was just his mind, playing tricks.

"I should get going, my shift starts in a few hours," Kenny says finally, pushing himself to his feet. The Mysterion cape and cowl have been squirreled away in a ratty backpack that seemed to appear out of nowhere. For all intents and purposes, he's just Kenny McCormick. The basket of stale baked goods has depleted to a handful of crumbs, whatever Kenny hasn't eaten he shoves into his pockets for later. "It should be gone by morning... Get some sleep, T, you're gonna need it."

The sharp edge of his thumbnail catches the wrong way, leaves a bloody mark in it's wake. He lowers his arms and stands, moving to let the other man out the door. He should sleep, needs to sleep more than anything else, but sleep probably won't come to him this night. He opens the door and steps aside to let Kenny out, catches his grin and finds himself smiling a shaky smile in turn.

"One more thing, T," Kenny says easily, spinning on his heel and walking backwards down the street. He feels the need to shout, to warn him about how dangerous it is, but the idea seems ridiculous now. Instead he lifts his head, meeting the sharp blue of Kenny's eyes. "Am I the only thing you see?"

He wants to say yes. The streets are empty, there's no one else around -- but he's not sure Kenny would appreciate the joke. Something about his face is somber, curious, eager to know more about this new toy presented to him, and something about it makes him feel bolder. A smile tugs at his lips, Tweek grips the doorframe and leans out. He lifts his voice just enough to carry, letting his secret fill the frosty November air.

“I’m always high, man, I-I’m always seeing shit!"

Kenny laughs. Flashes him the bird and spins back around, hurrying off down the street.

\-----------

The worst part about is, despite how satisfying it is to have an answer, to have confirmation, there's no room in his world for an I Told You So.

It's Token who breaks first. Token who stands outside the shop at opening, peering inside and looking concerned at the lack of the usual early morning activity. No sign of Tweek frantically rushing around double, triple, quadruple checking every little thing to make sure he's ready to open. He doesn't want to say he spent the night at home - unable to stomach the body being so close to him, unable to chase thoughts of being torn asunder by a mystically reanimated Kenny thirsty for revenge, instead he just jangles the keys in his pockets to catch his friend's attention. Token whirls on him with wide eyes, the relief on his face is palpable. He'd be touched, were it not for the way those eyes immediately rake over him. Taking stock of everything, disapproval settling across his face.

The tentative smile on Tweek's face fades immediately.

"Tweek," Token starts to say, but he's not in the mood. He shuffles by and gets the door open. Keen on slamming it in his face -- but Token's foot is faster than he is. The bigger man is through the door behind he can stop him. "Tweek, dude, come on. You can't stay mad forever."

"Watch me," he snarls over his shoulder. The thought of forgiveness gone from his mind, any consideration of an apology dashed.

"Tweek!" Token's not having any of it. There's a reason it's him and not Craig -- Token uses his words, not his fists, and that means that Tweek has to maintain restraint. There's no getting out of this with a suckerpunch to the gut, and no chance that one wrong comment will lead to a brawl on the floor. "Tweek, seriously, would you stop! You have a problem, man!"

"Yeah, I have a problem with you!" He slams the divider between clerk and customer, grabbing his apron from the rack behind him. He keeps his back to him as he ties it on, hands clenching into fists.

"If you'd just listen -- we're trying to help you!"

Tweek whirls on him. Both hands slamming on the countertop - he's scarcely taller than a middle school student, hardly intimidating, but he makes up for it with the sheer force of his fury. "Really? You're 'helping' me? Is that what you're telling yourselves? Don't make me laugh, man."

"We thought--!"

"That's just it! You thought! You never asked! You just -- burst in and assume everything, you don't listen to me!"

Idly he thinks about opening up the back. Showing them the damage - but would they see it? They never see it. They never notice what he notices. They'd probably assume he did it, rather than believe his story.

Token brings his hands up, a placating gesture. Trying to be the voice of reason - if they're going this route, he'd rather they sent Jimmy. Jimmy at least knows when to call it quits, sometimes you have to sack an act that's not working. 

"Okay, Tweek. I see how it probably felt that way, but..." He grapples for words, trying to find a way to phrase whatever he needs to say. "But you're not leaving us with very many options. We love you, man, we just --"

"Want what's best for me?" Tweek finishes, bitterly. A line he's heard time and time again. Their go to when they're worried and don't know what else to do. The worst part is he knows they mean it. He knows that all of this, all of this meddling and stupidity, comes from a place of love and care... but it's unwanted, unneeded, and unappreciated.

"... Yeah." Token's eyes are on the floor.

"Get out. You can talk to me when you're ready for a conversation. Not another guilt trip."

Tweek lets some of the tension ebb out of him. He takes a step back, turns around to survey the beans behind him. Freshly stocked, Kenny's parting gift to him last night. His back is straight and his fists are clenched hard enough to draw blood, and the feeling is familiar. Grounding. 

He keeps his back turned until he hears Token shift. The sound of heavy footsteps slowly making for the door, the jingle of the bell opening. The hopeful hesitation, the thought that maybe he'll change his mind and see sense... and finally, the defeated sigh. 

The door shuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jazzhands. all is not well with craig and those guys.


	3. life on track.

Kenny asks him if he wants to meet up tonight. Tweek manages to catch him in between patrons, promising to close up shop tonight. They can talk. Really talk. 

He’s not sure if he’s looking forward to it.

Historically, serious conversations about anything important to Tweek Tweak did not go well for him. It ended with added responsibilites, or suffocating guilt, or both.

Or it ended with the death of a relationship.

Craig had once told him there wasn’t room for three in their relationship. It had been a joke then, a subtle jab at Clyde for tagging along on yet another date after yet another girl dumped him. Craig had said it with an arm around his shoulders, both birds flipped, laughing just a little when Clyde flipped them in turn and told them to go because he was sick of hearing them suck face.

They were not actually sucking face. Tweek made it a point not to suck face when their friends were nearby -- common courtesy and all that.

It had come up again when he’d started spending more time with Stan. A jealous jab that Craig hadn’t meant, but one that came out none the less. That had sparked a fight - the first big one in ages, and in his heart he knew it wasn’t about Stan. It was about how he was acting distant, how Craig noticed. How Craig, despite his barriers and walls and proported mental stability, was the needier one in their relationship and picked up on it when Tweek wasn’t offering his all.

The final one had been the last. One evening after date night had been ruined by his jumps and jitters, pushed to the edge of his patience by the unseen third in their twosome. Craig caught him in the bathroom. 

Cocaine wasn’t supposed to be a longterm relationship, he’d just crashed on Tweek’s couch one night during a party he hadn’t even wanted to have and had stayed. Craig had grabbed him by the front of his shirt, demanding to know what the hell he was doing -- they did a lot in this town, but they weren’t supposed to be their parents. Drugs had always been a hard no. 

“What the hell is this?” Craig had asked, white faced, as he tore for the backroom looking for the rest. “Tweek, what the hell is this?” 

Tweek hadn’t quiet mustered the courage to look him in the eye as he replied, “what keeps this place afloat.”

Immediately the switch had flipped. Craig had gone from couldn’t give a fuck to overbearing, realizing now what was in the coffee and what it meant for Tweek. Everything that had been brushed aside as he’s just like that had been reframed, refocused, and it wasn’t long before the others were told in hushed whispers. They were all watching Tweek like he expected one of his twitches to finally tear him into pieces.

Craig had wanted him to go to rehab. 

He had wanted Craig to stop treating him like he was breakable.

He was small for his age -- he’d barely topped out at five foot three. Always struggled to maintain weight. His anxiety was out of control and all of the boys had endured his hysterical breakdowns over things unseen, never trying to understand, simply taking whatever had come easiest.

An immovable object met an unstoppable force. 

Tweek said take me as I am or leave me. Craig had persisted.

Tweek said he was done and Craig had refused.

Tweek said it was over and nearly broke Craig’s nose when the other man had begged him not to, the gentle hand on his shoulder had felt suffocating and the pressure had exploded out of him. Craig had looked at him wide-eyed, a hand over his nose, and simply said we’ll talk in the morning.

He moved out when Craig left for work the next day.

The fallout had been explosive. Things had been said that shouldn’t have been said. Lines had been drawn and a war had been waged with misplaced invites and deliberate exclusion. Token had taken his side – less out of agreement, he knew Token would never approve, and more out of worry. 

Self destruction always reared its ugly head under stress, isolation winning out over anger. And Clyde had sided with Craig, with Jimmy playing the neutral party and the messenger inbetween. 

In a different life he would have stopped. He knew this. Had stopped briefly when they were young and he hadn’t been financially responsible for his family. The business had fallen to him at eighteen, his father had claimed it to be his birthright. But he knew that it was an attempt to escape responsibility, put more pressure on his child than Tweek knew what to do with.

Now he did everything. Now it was the only thing keeping him going.

But that wasn’t why Clyde wasn’t looking him in the eye right now. No, the latest fight was worse. The bigger man was making a show of trying to decide on what coffee he wanted. Tweek knew his order by heart, he’d introduced him to the drink long ago -- something clean, and sweet, and simple. Like his friend.

It had been Clyde who had introduced him to everyone in the third grade. He wasn't sure exactly why he had, maybe they were just missing someone to even them out or make them all look normal by comparison. Clyde had simply approached him on the playground and asked him if he'd wanted to play, and that was that. Childhood friendships are built and broken on the simplest of gestures.

And now that he wasn’t dating Craig, it was Clyde who was desperate to bring him back into the fold. They sent him after Token, because Clyde was non-threatening despite his bulk and generally paid enough attention to his surroundings to avoid a scene. Even now Tweek can see it, the surreptitious sidelong glance at the last of the rush hour patrons as they shuffled to the door.

Tweek keeps his back to his friend, pretending to focus on counting the till though that had been done for nearly a half hour. Clyde has always been one of the few he was comfortable leaving himself exposed to.

“It’s bad customer service to ignore a customer,” Clyde says finally when they’re alone. Tweek doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s leaning forward and offering that chill smile. The one he thinks wins him all the girls, but really only makes him look like a bad infomercial.

“It’s bad friendship to show up when I’m working,” Tweek snaps. There's a beat, then a cringe. That's a bad line. He's never been good at trash talking. 

“You’re _always_ working, Tweek.”

“What do you want, man? Just, nnnnget it over with. I already told Token off.”

“So I heard.”

"So why are you here?

“Dude, come on - we’re worried about you. Don’t get pissy because we care. That’s such a Craig thing to do.”

Tweek snorts. 

“It’s true,” Clyde insists, sounding a little annoyed now. He’d probably just had to have this conversation with Craig about how he was being an idiot if he wanted to get his PhD by distance. “Jesus, you’re actually mad that we care enough about you to try to help get your life on track.”

“My life is on track.”

“Yeah. Your dad’s track. Dude, you wanted to be a pianist. What ever happened to the Tweek who wrote screamo about North Korea and wrote symphonies about faeries? Just last summer you were all about selling this place and taking your savings to study somewhere cool! Then you didn’t even send in your application!”

Tweek’s thumbnail catches his middle finger, he winces at the sensation and drops his hands down to his side.

“When was the last time you even had a day off?” Clyde’s voice softens. “You look exhausted, T.”

“I’m having one tonight,” Tweek answers, finally turning around to look at him - like that would prove anything. He’s still raccoon eyed and trembling like a newborn foal standing for the first time. 

“Oh yeah? Doing what?” He doesn’t believe him. He hates that he doesn’t believe him, even something as simple as this draws up only warning flags.

“I’m having dinner with a friend.”

Clyde’s eyebrows jump, and Tweek can see the gears turning in his head, trying to parse together who it could be. None of their schedules permit for dinner to happen tonight, Clyde has work tonight, Jimmy is out of town, Craig still isn’t there yet, and Token’s only home for the weekend. Tweek doesn’t have other friends. At least not real ones. “... Who?”

As if on cue, the bell jingles. Tweek peeks around his friend in time to see Kenny freeze at the sight of Clyde, then shrug it off and stroll up to the front counter easy as can be. Like they all belong here, like this isn’t about to be awkward. 

“Hey, Tweek,” Kenny’s all grin, all teeth. He’s missing one - probably from a fight - another is badly crooked. Tweek thinks he remembers how he lost that one too -- a nasty fall on the playground, face first into the jungle gym. He'd been the first kid he'd ever see to lose a tooth that didn't grow back. But now isn't the time for reminiscing, that's later. Now is the time to stand his ground and glare. 

“Tweek...” Clyde’s expression sours a little. Worry wins out over anger, he knows what the other is thinking -- what he thinks they’re going to go do, and even if he knows this isn’t a fight he’ll win, he’s willing to try. Some sense of moral obligation had always fueled him, it's the same spark that had him standing up to Eric Cartman time and time again. Regardless of the cost to himself.

Tweek isn’t in the mood to weather his altruism today.

“Clyde, you have to get to work, man, they’re gonna fire you if you’re late. I’m closing up. I’ll call you later.” He gestures to the door, doing his damnedest to be civil, but not relenting. A lifetime of tagging along behind giants had taught him that the key to intimidation is confidence, and while he was far from a confident man, he had learned long ago that it was easy enough to fake if it was backed by frustration or anger. 

Unlike Token, Clyde doesn’t protest his eviction. He gives a wavering smile and excuses himself, heading for the door. Even as he goes his hand dips into his pocket to pull out his phone, no doubt to shoot a text off to the others. Tweek follows him and locks the door the second it shuts, letting out a frustrated sound and turning so he doesn't see Clyde's betrayed look.

Kenny watches him walk down the street, hands sliding into the pocket of his hoodie. He rocks back on his heels, rocks forward, and then lets out a long, low whistle.

“Well, that was painful.”

“You have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had this whole thing written out!! and then my computer restarted and i hadn't saved. womp womp.


	4. like an elephant.

Kenny supposed he should have reservations about all of this. Not be so quick to believe the words of South Park’s best known basket case. Tweek Tweak had been a trainwreck since the first grade, his personality seemed to be made up of prescriptions.  Or the dire need for them. Tweek had been the kid  _none_  of them had wanted to work with when it came to group projects, his anxiety had been infectious and  _consuming_  and his penchant for spouting off any random thing had made him  _weird_. 

Kenny  _liked_  weird.

The kid had claimed to see gnomes, ghosts, goblins and monsters had made the other kids wary of him. He’d remembered going to his house to verify the existence -- surprised  _not_  that they’d been real, but that Tweek had seen them -- only to die during the adventure. They’d gotten an A, that was all he’d really known, and Tweek had never seemed surprised to see him back in class... or if he had, Kenny hadn’t been able to tell. He’d looked at everyone in the same wild-eyed, half feral way - like he expected them to jump up and attack him for toeing out of line.

( Not that anyone who had  _ever_  taken a swing at Tweek Tweak recommended doing so. The kid was tiny, but he was vicious. Cartman had called him a  _fag_  one too many times and he’d concussed him with nothing but a  _headbutt_. )

Granted, it wasn’t hard to imagine  _why_. Nice as the Tweak’s had seemed, he knew the deal they had with the neighbors. He’d just assumed that they were scoring for themselves, sending the kid in their place. Tweek never drank at parties, he was the designated driver at nearly every event Kenny could remember seeing him at, and he’d turned down a tab of LSD when they were getting adventurous during Token’s sixteenth birthday. He’d just  _assumed_  from there, the kid was nervous, the kid was  _paranoid_. 

Yet his illusion been dashed when he’d walked into the coffee shop a few weeks after graduation and bore witness to the kid he had  _assumed_  to be straight edge snorting a line of coke like it was no big deal. He’d looked up, eyes wide, panicked to be caught - but  _Mysterion_  had reassured him it was fine. He wouldn’t tell. And Kenny had trusted him, because if there was anyone who seemed  _responsible_  enough to use drugs it was Tweek.

Tweek was the right kind of weird to get his interest, but the wrong kind of weird to be in the close circle. He orbited, bailing any time things got  _too_  out of hand. Once or twice he’d physically grabbed Craig and  _hauled_   him from the room despite the protest of his boyfriend and the less than kind jeering of their peers.

Now Kenny knew why.

Clyde leaves but the tension doesn’t fade. Tweek looks frustrated and a little  _angry_  -- he doesn’t say anything, but he hears quiet sounds and what could be  _words_  as Tweek flicks the lock and leans back against the door like  _that_  is enough to keep the world from seeping in. A hand comes up to his face, his slender fingers rub at his temples. Damn, the kid’s got some hands on him -- didn’t he used to be a pianist? He remembers that, vaguely, mostly the incoherent  _shrieking_  of an anxiety attack preformed on stage.

“You have  _no_  idea, man,” he says with the air of defeat, waiting for a moment before he pushes himself upright and walks back to the counter, grabbing his cup of coffee off of the ledge. “They mean well but, nnnngthey don’t get it.”

“I feel you,” he answers, thinking of his own friends. Their well meaning concern and frustration, their lack of understanding about it. 

“You have it worse than I ever did,” he says sympathetically, downing what's left of the mug.

"So talk to me, man. I don't know what you're working with here. Let's play catchup. We haven't hung out just the two of us since the fifth grade."

The blonde unties his apron and busies himself with making another cup. His brows drawn together in concentration, evidently trying to work out  _what to say_ before he says it. Kenny snags a seat at the counter to watch, and without saying a word, Tweek produces his usual drink. The kid drinks his coffee straight, black and steaming - while Kenny enjoys a sweet, frothy holdover from the days this place wore a different name. Tweek downs most of the drink in a gulp.

“I was diagnosed with schizotypical personality disorder in the sixth grade,” he starts slow, uncertain, his fingers against his lips. “T-That’s not really accurate, I guess, if it’s real -- but I have, ngh,  _anxiety_  and difficulty with social situations. I guess - I don’t know. I used to shout everything I saw, like, t-that'd make someone else notice. The gnomes? Nobody noticed the gnomes. The gnomes could steal the underwear off of him. And the crab people, t-they invaded and lived in our sewers. Nobody believed me. They -- they had me on a lot of medication and none of it ever seemed to help.”

Kenny remembers, vaguely. Six to eighth grade there was a very different Tweek sitting in his morning music class. One that didn’t twitch and tic and jump, one that could barely lift his head and never seemed one hundred percent aware of what was going on. That hadn't been right, he'd thought - Craig and those guys weren't thrilled with it. Tweek had seemed most aware with them when he'd caught them sitting around lunch. He thinks of the Tweaks themselves. Of their easy smiles and their sweetness, how doting they seemed to their son. But at the same time he remembers Richard Tweak showing up at Cartman’s house to drag his son back to the store when he’d felt Tweek had been gone too long, or the way Tweek’s face would fall when he’d answer the phone to their voices. How that tired, dopey Tweek had still worked the same rigorous shifts in the shop that he had when they were kids.

And how Richard told anyone who would  _listen_ that his son was  _doing his very best_ with the unfortunate hand life had dealt him.

“I was re-assessed when I had that meltdown over Garrison’s re-election. And so much had happened, man, _so much_. Nobody believed me. Not Craig, not Token, not even _Clyde_... But by then I learned not to say anything about what I saw, they changed my meds and I -- I stopped taking everything, man, I hate how they made me feel. They called it a misdiagnosis and blamed it on my anxiety. I finished out highschool and, ngh, applied to some colleges... Got accepted into a few music programs.”

Kenny’s eyes drift to his fingers to the blue of his eyes -- not really blue, actually. More a sea green. There’s a smattering of faded freckles across his pale cheeks, he looks like he hasn't seen the sun in ages. Like he's sick, a withering dandelion in a cave. Tweek’s gaze is out the window, watching day slowly give way to night.

“I didn’t know you were so into music.”

A shrug. “There’s no money in it.”

Kenny idly thinks about saying there’s no money in rancid coffee -- but he knows Tweek already knows that. Knows for a  _fact_  that both he and Craig had moved out of the town, however briefly, because he’d been at their going away party the weekend they’d moved. Craig had been smashed, telling  _anybody_  who would listen just how much he loved his boyfriend and how they were going to be the  _first gay dudes on Mars_  while Tweek had sipped a beer and laughed into his hands when Craig had taken his hand and kissed it.

He expects Tweek to go on, to explain why they’d come back, but he doesn’t. He digs his fingers into his lip a little harder, uneasy and sad, then relents.

“What about you?” He asks, blinking wide eyes and turning his attention to him. “Did you try to leave?”

“Nope,” Kenny pops the *p* on the word, flashing a crooked grin. “I took over the lease on the family home. Been working, making sure Karen’s taken care of, minding my folks and Kevin.”

“Being a superhero at night,” Tweek finishes. 

“And being a superhero at night. You’d be surprised -- well, maybe not *you* -- but the shit that goes on here at night is unbelievable.”

“W-Why do you think I stay here overnight?”

“Smart choice.”

Tweek smiles.  It’s a nice smile, sort of shy and unsure, but so real it changes his whole face. Better than the anger or the uncertainty, it brings a life to him he didn’t think he had and the warmth floods back into his pale cheeks.

“So... Speaking of what goes on here at night,” Kenny says, bringing the topic back around. “What else do you see? I mean, other than the bodies.”

The smile disappears. The nervousness is back, and Kenny empathizes. It’s not easy to talk about this, this... connection. This understanding that the two of them have. He has the exact same expression Kenny’s had time and time again, afraid to speak but desperate to be believed.

“I...” Tweek straightens up, reaching into the bag he’d pulled from the back room. It’s a small school agenda, the kind they gave out for homework and other such things but  _never_  got used by any of the kids. “I actually have -- nnngh, it’s dumb but, it’s easier if you just read it? I-- I kept notes, ugh, just so I had something just in case.”

He pushes it across the table. Kenny takes it in hand.

“How far does this go back?”

“Third grade.” He still tics, Kenny notices, his eye twitches shut as he speaks. “I-It covers third to fourth grade.”

And as he says it, he knows. It’s all  _there_.

There’s a legend on the front page. A crude doodle of a boy in a hoodie for every day Kenny was present in class. A skull for every time he died. A halo above his head for every day he came back. A drawing of Stan, Kyle, or Cartman ( _mostly_  Cartman) when they did something particularly dangerous.

And the notes. The  _notes_.

His writing is small and meticulously crafted to fit in the tiny pages, summarizing the events of every day. And it was  _every day_. Had things been this bad? Kenny doesn’t remember  _half of these events_ , but the little mark by the day tells him he probably wasn’t around for it.

“Dude,” Kenny laughs aloud, flipping through page after page. “This is  _incredible_! Holy  _shit_! Can I see the rest?”

He glances up, catches the expression before Tweek schools it into something more guarded. Shock, vivid across his face - eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, the barest hint of relief and  _yearning_.

“Do they not remember this?” He asks, gesturing at the pages.

A shrug. He scratches at the crook of his arm. “On and off.”

“On and off?”

Tweek shrugs again. “It depends on the day and the context. Sometimes they’ll bring it up themselves, sometimes they won’t remember it even if you show them proof... usually the more, ngh, fantastical things are forgotten.”

“Like my death.”

“Like your death. And anything that -- breaks the, hnn, typical laws of the universe.”

“Laws of the universe?”

“Like...” He gestures vaguely. “Like, anything that would prevent things from going on as normal. O-Once the damage is cleaned up, they seem to forget. Nobody -- nobody remembered the Global Warming. Or our dads being drunk, cracked out witches.”

“Wait, what?”

“Exactly!” Tweek slams a hand against the table, startling himself more than anything else. “T-they kidnapped Heidi! And a bunch of other children! Garrison hit one of them with a laser beam from  _space_  and _killed him_! This was the same year North Korea  _declared war on me_!”

Kenny’s eyebrows shoot up. Tweek looks at him, searching his face. The disappointment is back, but -- not in full force. It washes into relief when there’s no laugh or concerned comment, and he knows, he  _knows_  because Tweek just needs someone to believe in him.

They’re not the same. But they’re similar. Idly he wonders if the Tweaks were in the cult, if that’s why Tweak can recognize the world. 

“And nobody remembers it?” 

“They don’t,” he says tiredly, closing his eyes. “T-they’ll bring it up if they remember, but if I bring it up then they just blame it on --”

 He gestures to his head. 

 “-- and stop listening.”

“Hence you giving Clyde the boot,” Kenny nods, understanding.

“Yeah,” Tweek sighs. He turns back to the bag, digging out the rest of his old school agendas. “I transferred out of Garrison’s class, ngh, specifically to get out of that -- b-but it hits across the whole school. Whatever goes on in this town, it affects  _everyon_ e.”

“It makes the adults stupid.”

“And it makes people  _die_.”

“And it covers it up.”

There’s a stack of fourteen books in front of him. Eleven years of  _proof_. Eleven years of solid,  _notated_  evidence. Pieces of a puzzle he hadn't realized had existed, that  _someone else_ has been capable of seeing where the seams of the world don't quiet meet the reality they're supposed to build. The grin across his face is so wide it's  _painful_. 

Tweek meets his eyes, chewing on his thumbnail. “... I don’t know how much we can find out, man. I- I’m just -- if  _you_  forget things too, then there’s a chance  _I’m_  forgetting things, which means that w-we might be missing pieces.”

“No,” Kenny pulls one of the more recent books over to him, splaying a hand across the worn covers. So reverent that each of them might as well been a copy of the holy bible. “I think I can’t die. We’ve seen my bodies. We know that's a thing. _I_ know that's a thing. I’ve felt it in every way I possibly can... but, you, Tweek.

I think  _you_  can’t forget.”


	5. But he sees nothing.

They determine he must be a Seer. This isn’t from any fundamental scientific research. Kenny declares himself the doer and therefore Tweek must be The Seer, and that is that. They compare notes on events, corroborate a rough timeline of what happened when

( he’s learning Tweek’s bad with time, he keeps detailed notes on everything for a reason )

and declare that no, Tweek has no other superpowers. He is not immortal, he can’t heal from anything. If anything, he’s a walking medical marvel. He lists several conditions - mental and physical - that his parents informed him he had, but he never really believed it.

He does have a bad heart, though.

And bad lungs. Gets sick bad. The stint everyone believed him to be in Hell’s Pass for a mental breakdown was actually a bout with pneumonia that nearly killed him. Kenny thinks to scold him for smoking but he never finds the motivation.

But two days later they’re back in the store. The club so far has been spent comparing notes on who knows what.

“So, hey, Tweekers – gotta ask, man, do you see any other weird shit? I mean, other than my dead bodies.”

Tweek doesn’t answer him right away. His hands are always shaking and it makes his current task nearly impossible. The eye of the needle is too small, and no matter how he licks the string, it refuses to stay straight.

“Tweek?”

An annoyed grunt.

“Tweek, words? I don’t speak caveman, dude.”

Another sound, this one victorious. He holds the threaded needle triumphantly, his eyes bright and lively. Then the expression drops to something serious. He pushes Kenny to the side like a sack of bricks, accessing the gash in his side lik a trained medical professional despite the fact that Kenny knows for sure that South Park first aide didn’t cover guirella medicine.

“Give me a minute, man! You showed up on my doorstep, nnngh, bleeding to death. I’m not answering until this is fixed.”

“I’m not bleeding to death,” he protests, but it doesn’t matter. Doctor Tweek grabs an icepack to numb the area and then sets about sewing him up. “... You know, you’re actually way more competent than figured you’d be.”

He tugs the string tight, not looking at Kenny. He gives an experimental tug, reassuring himself it will hold.

“I mean usually you’re all gah and woah! I just figured you’d be all waaah think of the property value, Kenny how could you!”

“Just because I have anxiety doesn’t mean I’m useless. And you’ve already d-died here, man, our property value is shot.”

He slips the needle inside again. Stitches the gash back together with surprisingly neat stitches. Kenny remembers Tweek’s shirts - torn to shreds, worried into pieces, but sewn together until they were more stitch than shirt. Kids had teased him in school about it.

He must have done the repair himself.

“Well yeah, I know. I just mean – for someone who used to always scream too much pressure, you’re really good under it. And also totally covered in my blood and not screaming. What’s your secret?”

Tweek hums again. He’s starting to learn what the sounds mean, understanding the differences.

When he’s done he’s sure to wrap the injury with sterilized gauze and places a firm hand on Kenny’s shoulder, guiding him down to the mattress in the back. Kenny realizes, dimly that he doesn’t remember the last time he saw Tweek come into the store. Tweek sleeps here instead of going home.

The skinny blonde lights up a cigarette and sits down next to him, offering him a drag. Kenny takes it gratefully. “You never answered my question.”

Tweek glances at him, taking the cigarette back between two fingers, and slips it back between his lips. He inhales deep, holds it in his lungs, and lets it out through his nose. Slow, like a dragon.

He looks oddly beautiful in the darkness. The light from the open door illuminates him in just the right way - he doesn’t look sick, or stressed, and the jitters are kept to his fingers. He’s zen. Beautiful. Present.

Then his eyes cut to something else. In the dim lighting he sees fear.

“Get some sleep, Kenny.”

“Only if I get to wake up with you,” Kenny takes his hand and presses a kiss to the knuckles, his voice light and breezy. Instinctive flirtation. He feels its a victory when Tweek doesn’t pull away, when he turns his attention back, tugging him gently down onto the shitty mattress. Tweek mutters, I’m not tired but the yawn gives it away.

After a moment, the blonde speaks. Picking up a conversation he’d nearly forgotten in a soft, breakable voice. “I see nightmares when I’m awake.”

His fingers find those wild blonde locks. Gently carding through them, until he feels his breathing even out and sleep claims him.

He doesn’t wake up with Tweek. He isn’t sure the guy is capable of a full night’s sleep. But he falls asleep. Flat on his back with a small, human-shaped space heater tucked against his good side.

 

* * *

 

Tweek sends him off to work the next morning with strict instructions not to push himself, and a freebie drink on the house. He doesn’t give freebies. Kenny remembers all the times Kyle and Cartman had bitched about it -- not to each other, but to him, complaining that Tweek was their friend and he should cut them some slack if they couldn’t afford the extra dollar.

He’s halfway down the street when he’s accosted.

Craig grabs him by the arm, spins him around like he’s nothing - the guy has been working out, getting stronger every day. Like physical strength is going to compensate in the fight against whatever demons his little ex-boyfriend faces when the lights go out.

“You,” he sneers, a sharp hand swings, knocking his frapp out of his hand. It clatters on the ground, spilling its contents everywhere. “You had to come along and make everything worse, didn’t you?”

“The fuck, man?! That was like six bucks,” Kenny dusts his shirt off, glaring up. Once a bully, always a bully. Craig’s instincts are to go for the simple hits, make it small but make it pain. “What are you talking about?”

“Tweek, you fuckhead. Tweek.”

“What the hell, man? You don’t know the first thing about it. Aw, man, shit, it’s ever--”

The wall in front of him is suddenly met with a mighty fist. Kenny cuts himself off, eyes going wide.

“The hell I don’t!” Craig roars, and just for a moment, Kenny feels a stab of fear. This is a different sort of rage than the one he expected. He could handle a dick measuring contest, he can’t handle something founded in love and fear. “You swoop in here, validating all his crazy fucking theories, putting him years behind in recovery and therapy, and then you have the fucking gall to act like you know him?”

Craig grabs him by the front of the shirt. Kenny, who has known death in more ways most men can count, feels that fear grow as he looks into the wild eyes of a man maddened by his own fear. The fear of mortality.

“He’s sick. He needs help. You know he’s skipping therapy? We had him clean and you come in and suddenly he won’t listen to any of us. Do you get your kicks feeding addicts, McCormick?”

“Don’t go there, Tucker,” Kenny’s voice drops by octaves, coming out in a growl. “I didn’t do this to him. He was --”

“It doesn’t matter! You’re a fucking enabler!”

“Don’t. I didn’t give him drugs.”

“It’s not about drugs!”

“Then what?!”

“Do you know why we broke up?” His voice is low and dangerous, carrying an undercurrent of hatred. “You know why he moved all his shit out in the middle of the goddamn night, bought this godforsaken shithole, and locked himself to a lifetime of debt?”

He’s ready for this, snapy comeback on his lips. But he doesn’t get the chance. Craig gives him a shake.

“It’s because he tried to kill himself getting away from everything you’re telling him is real.”

And suddenly he’s cold. The cocky smirk that had been working its way onto his face drops.

“Can you imagine,” he continues, his voice pained. “Seeing all these things that nobody else can, and having to live like that. Having all these memories that aren’t real -- and getting your heart broke every time someone tells you you’re wrong? Can you imagine being the person who has to see that, every damn day, and then getting resented for it because you don’t want the person you love to live in fantasies forever?”

Craig’s voice breaks by degrees. The fury ebbs out of him. The memory is real and terrifies him, and Kenny can see that. Feel it in the way every word pushes out of him like it was punched, the pain in his eyes is vivid and impossible to ignore.

His hands drop from Kenny’s shirt.

“He won’t tell you shit, Kenny. Not when it matters. Not even if he trusts you. And it eats him up inside. We had him on the right path and then you came along and enabled all these fucking delusions all over again, and now he won’t listen. He’s always looked at you funny, like - like you were the piece of some fucking puzzle the rest of us weren’t privy to.”

Their eyes meet. Craig’s are no longer consumed by rage, and he’s long run out of tears to cry. Their relationship lasted over a decade. They’d been each other’s firsts, and probably thought they would be their lasts... but this isn’t about jealousy. This isn’t about being possessive.

This is the ghost of future mistakes come to warn the present not to repeat them.

“If he dies, it’ll be your fault.”

Craig pulls back. Put strides between them. He starts to walk towards the store but stops, looking pained, and turns in the other direction. Striding off without purpose.

He’s two hours late for work but his boss eyes the bloody bandages and says he’ll overlook it so long as he doesn’t try to claim comp for that. Kenny agrees.

He doesn’t think about ghosts. Or immortality. Or demons, or monsters.

He thinks about that small body tucked up against his. The comforting weight on his arms. And the line that creased his forehead while he slept, and the dampness of his shirt when they’d work.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Tweek joins him on the roof of the coffee house. Kenny can smell the whisky on him - it’s new, Tweek isn’t a drinker. He guesses Craig must have stopped by after all, and whatever passed between them was bad enough to leave a closed sign on the front door. Never has been in all the time he’s known him. But he hops onto the ledge, swinging his legs over the side. His weight is slight when he leans against Kenny’s shoulder. Wordlessly the bottle is offered and Kenny takes a swing.

“Craig still loves you,” breaks the silence, his voice low and husky. It isn’t a warning. It isn’t something he doesn’t already know. It’s an out. A warning. A chance to slip back into whatever it was he had before they delved too deep.

“I know,” Tweek replies. His fingers find the hero’s, tentatively seeing permission to hold it.

“And you still love him.” A statement.

One Tweek denies with a shake of his head. The immortal tips his hand to the side, allowing Tweek to take hold and slot their fingers together.

The sun is rising.

“I did,” he says quietly, as tendrils of gold reach across the sky to push back the darkness. “I do... Just, ngh, not in the way that works.

Kenny squeezes his hand. Thinks of the words that Craig had said, thinks of them in school. Tweek staring at him, puzzling together a mystery the rest of the world didn’t comprehend.

“Do you love me?” He asks, and Tweek laughs softly. It’s scratchy, and tired, and if voices can be he supposes he’d call it dusty. Like an old bell pulled from the shelf.

“I barely even know you?” He breathes when he’s done. “W-We’re sort of friends. Not at love yet. That takes time.”

“That’s fair,” Kenny says. He pulls the hood down, reaches for the bottle and takes another swing.

“But I could, maybe,” Tweek says after a while. Looking up at the stars. “Maybe in the right way. Maybe one day. W-what brought this on? Do you love me?”

“I love your tight little ass,” he deflects, and Tweek laughs again, joyous and warm. The sound is music even if it may sound like a disaster to the untrained ear. He pulls his hand away and rests it between his bony knees.

“Close enough,” Tweek sticks a cigarette between his lips. Hands the bottle over, evidently done with it. A guy his size shouldn’t drink that much. “I don’t fuck on the first date though, man.”

“Shit. I don’t even do dates.”

“Then we’re at an impasse.”

The sun rises. Tweak Bros stays closed for the day. Tweek sleeps off a hangover with his head on Kenny’s shoulder, stubbornly coaxed into laying down despite his protests that they _had_ to open soon. The rest of his body curls away. Kenny peers into the darkness of the back room like it will reveal its answers to him.

But he sees nothing.


End file.
